


We're all falling (and we need a place to hide)

by whump_angst_fluff_repeat



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: !!!, Aftermath of Torture, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Electrocution, Gun Violence, Hurt Peter Parker, Imprisonment, My First Fanfic, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Protective Tony Stark, Torture, more tags will be added as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27278074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whump_angst_fluff_repeat/pseuds/whump_angst_fluff_repeat
Summary: Peter catches himself and stumbles to the opposite edge of the small creek. His head is stuck in one mode:get away,and the pain from his injuries doesn’t compete with his desperate need to run. Dragging himself up the embankment, Peter follows his instinct.He runs.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 104
Kudos: 186





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Title taken from The Woods by Hollow Coves, which lowkey gave me the inspo to write the first little bit of this)
> 
> Ok so I have been planning to post for FOREVER, I have sooo many WIPs but I just struggle getting the inspiration after the first chapter or two. But I really liked how this first chapter turned out so I decided to post anyway... please don't hate me if it never gets updated. I have a little more written and a vague outline planned out but... the muses are fickle. So don't read if you don't wanna, I'll totally understand. Just figured I might as well get something out there.
> 
> (P.S. Huuuge thanks to [Blondsak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak) for all your encouraging words, I'm way nervous about posting but you've had such faith in me from the beginning <3 Hopefully it doesn't disappoint, I see so many flaws honestly lol)

Peter is running.

From what, he isn’t sure.

He is escaping.

Running from everything.

* * *

Sharp twigs, rocks, ferns, and leaves fly by beneath his bare feet. Branches clutch at his limbs as he passes. Poking and scratching, leaving long white lines and short red streaks of blood across his skin.

He can’t stop.

Through prickly bushes, over roots that threaten to send him sprawling. Peter’s legs carry him, and he thinks _farther, farther._

The sun flashes between trees, disappearing behind a rise in the ground. Reappearing as he stumbles up the incline, feet seeking desperate purchase on the mound of earth. When he makes it over the top, his left foot slips underneath him and he falls, stomach lurching in surprise and a cry bursting from his lips as his aching ribs hit the solid rock that shows through the patches of dirt and weeds on this side of the hill. His momentum carries him tumbling down the short slope, arms up in an attempt to brace each impact, and he glimpses in his frantic mind a memory of rolling down grassy hills to lay spread-eagled and dizzy at the bottom, laughing, just to pick themselves up and run back to the top, eager to do it again- Peter’s body comes to a halt with a splash, and he’s cold, and wet- clothes soaked through, Peter lies dazed, sprawled across the rocks that make up the bed of this shallow creek.

Shivers wrack his body as he instinctively curls into himself. His brain is desperately trying to process, to make sense of everything that has happened in the last few hours. The pain piercing every inch of his body doesn’t make it any easier. Sharp rocks dig into his side, his head is throbbing, and spikes of pain shoot up from his left ankle -twisted when he took the fall. Not to mention the innumerable lacerations and bruises from-- the men.

Somewhere in the woods, a gunshot sounds.

Peter shoves himself quickly up on shaky arms, water splashing with the force of his upright motion. His mind is dazed as he pulls one leg under himself, rising to his feet only to nearly crumple as he attempts to put weight on his left foot. Maybe not so twisted and more sprained, then.

Peter catches himself and stumbles to the opposite edge of the small creek. His head is stuck in one mode: _get away,_ and the pain from his injuries doesn’t compete with his desperate need to run. Dragging himself up the embankment, Peter follows his instinct.

He runs, with staggering, limping steps, water droplets dripping from his ragged t-shirt and tattered sweatpants and loose curls.

Up piles of rocks, up a hill, he’s climbing, and as the trees darken, he needs somewhere safe, he needs somewhere to hide, he’s shaking and- a cleft in the rocks, a shallow cavity, Peter clambers between boulders, and his legs are giving out. His mind feels fuzzy, driven only by the primal instinct to find shelter, safety.

The cave is only a few feet deep, but there are rocks overhead, and the entrance is hidden by the large slabs of stone, and the small space traps warmth. His damp clothes cling to his skin as he crawls into the hollow, left leg dragging behind. He’s shivering violently, the night having cooled significantly since the sun went down, and Peter lays down and curls into a ball on his side against the back of the cave. Trembling, scared. Cold.

He tucks his arms around himself, pulls his knees up to his chest, and his eyes slip closed with exhaustion.

Peter’s mind allows him one last desperate thought before he drifts into oblivion.

_Mister Stark._

* * *

_“_ _Okay, little spider, just one more time.” In contrast to the wording, the man’s voice is cold, and it’s accented, native to some island that most of the people here sound to be from._

_Peter rocks his head side to side on the metal slab that holds his body in a half-reclined position. “No, please. Please.” His breaths ratchet up as cool metal is placed against his temples, holding his head in place. “Please,” the word comes out as a half-sob._

_They’ve already done it so many times, they’ve already cut into him and beaten him and broken his bones, and now they’re electrocuting him, they’re gauging just how much his body can stand._

_“Please don’t.” Peter strains his eyes to see the scientist in the corner of his field of vision, hoping the eye contact might move something in the man, plea to his humanity, persuade him to let Peter off just this once._

_The man only looks at Peter._

_“Please.” It’s a whisper now._

_One of the man’s eyebrows lifts slightly and then he turns back to the control board, hand moving toward the switch._

_“No, please don’t, don’t, no,_ PLEASE!”

_The last word evolves into a scream as electricity surges through the boy’s body. His back arches and his wrists and ankles strain against the shackles that keep him on the cold metal table. The voltage is higher than the last five times, the agony is greater. Fire surges through his veins and every muscle is taut, anything less than vibranium would have failed to keep him restrained. He screams. He screams, and he doesn’t know anything but pain, he never has. He never will. It’s too much, he can’t take it anymore, it’s burning him from the inside out-_

_The blackness curling at the edges of his mind swoops suddenly, in one fluid movement swallowing him whole._

* * *

Peter wakes with a gasp, pushing his chest from the ground on shaky arms, looking around in perturbation. Phantom pain runs through every nerve in his body, and it takes a minute to distinguish between his dream _-memory-_ and the reality surrounding him. He’s confused, and it’s dark, and he’s cold, pain is blossoming in his foot, his ribs, his head, as his mind begins to register which sensations are real, and-

He wants Mr. Stark.

The longing _-aching-_ to simply see the man blindsides him as he sits up against the hard rock behind his back and wraps his arms around his knees. Mr. Stark was going to rescue him, right? He knows he’s dreamed about it enough times.

Had one of those times been real? Had he wished it into existence, into happening?

Peter hugs his legs to his chest and looks around the small space, taking in the rough rock walls, the rain pelting just outside the entrance to this -cave?- a few feet away. The downpour splashes against the stone just outside of his little hollow, spraying tiny misty water droplets, the farthest of which catch Peter’s bare toes. He pulls his feet in closer, despite the pain that lances through his left ankle.

Mr. Stark isn’t here -clearly- but where is here?

Peter’s head is too muddled to think through the circumstances. He remembers loud rumblings, the building shaking with explosions, and the need to _get away._ Beyond that, all he can recall, all he knows now is fear, rushing through him and turning every shadow into a blade, every brush against his skin into a chokehold. Fear, and _cold._ He's so cold, his shoulders tremble and his fingers are almost numb. If it’s possible, his arms constrict even tighter around his knees.

Where is Mr. Stark?

He wants Mr. Stark.

 _I can’t let anything happen to you,_ Mr. Stark had told him once, in a rare moment of candor. _And I won’t._

Where is he then?

He needs Mr. Stark.

Huddled there, shaking, head leant against the rough rock wall as rain pelts through the darkness all around him, Peter slowly succumbs to sleep once more.

* * *

It is light when he awakens, slowly peeling his eyes open and unsticking his cheek from the stone to peer at his surroundings as he knuckles bleary eyes.

Sun is streaming into the small cavity in the rock, where he sits, stiff and sore from a night on solid stone. He stretches his elbows above his head for only a moment before wincing and lowering his arms to clutch at his side. His ribs feel bruised, at least one of them is likely cracked, judging from the pain that just lanced through the area.

One arm wrapped around his abdomen, he uses the wall of the cave beside him to pull himself to his feet, only to cry out when his left foot begins to take his weight, and lower himself back to the ground.

He feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Which has happened before, giving him a few broken ribs and a concussion. Hm. He doesn’t have a concussion right now- he doesn’t _think_ he has a concussion right now, no double vision or anything, but he supposes it’s possible he does. But he still can’t immediately remember what happened. How did he get… here?

Peter gazes around at the rock walls once more, and then peers out beyond them to see large slabs of rock half obscuring the cave entrance, dark green trees beyond them. The sights begin to jog his memory and he recalls dragging himself into the cavity the night before, he remembers running frantically through the trees, being chased by-

He remembers being strapped to a table. Helpless. _Pain._ Pain for so long he doesn’t know if it was days or weeks. Or months.

His head hurts, construction workers are pounding nails into his skull. Every memory feels fuzzy and contorted, which only ramps up his anxiety. Flashes of knives, and metal cuffs, black levers and cold tables, bright lights above his head and shadowy blackness in the periphery, white lab coats stained by red blood, blood dripping, dripping, and it doesn’t stop, he’s bleeding out, they’ve cut too deep this time, and he can’t breathe, darkness is closing in, he _needs to breathe._

He needs Tony.

_Tony._

Peter gasps for breath, lungs spasming, and his surroundings miraculously rush back to him, he’s sitting on solid rock, but-

 _Panic attack,_ his brain supplies.

 _Yeah, I know,_ he retorts, bracing his arm against the cool rock as he struggles, _but how do I get rid of it?_

A rhetorical question he’d asked his own brain, but to his surprise the answer comes to him anyway, Tony’s voice resonating through his head with such clarity he wants to look around to see if he’s really here.

_“Breathe. Just breathe, Roo.”_

_“I- I can’t-”_

_“Listen to my breaths, see? In… out…”_

Peter struggles, forcing his lungs to inhale slowly, shakily. His breaths gradually begin to slow as he recalls his mentor’s coaching, eyes closed for fear he’ll look around and see that Tony isn’t really here, and then the illusion will vanish, and he’ll be alone-

_“That’s it, just slow down…”_

But it’s so hard, he feels like he’s going to pass out if he doesn’t breathe faster, he needs more air-

_“Now tell me- what are five things you can see?”_

Right. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but it works. If he can just open his eyes.

_“Come on, five things. Go.”_

Reluctantly Peter peels his eyes open, squinting at the light and looking around the little cave. He was right. Tony isn’t here. The voice is only in his mind. What does that say about his sanity?

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly. _Don’t panic, don’t panic._

_Five things._

Peter opens his eyes and looks around, still trying to wrestle his lungs into submission. He begins to whisper them to himself as his gaze lands on objects around him.

“Rock. Trees. Sky. Um… a puddle. My feet.” He wiggles his feet slightly as he says it, and immediately regrets it for the pain that shoots up his leg once again.

_“Good, now four things you can hear. You know the drill.”_

“Birds… My breathing. My heartbeat… um, water dripping.”

He closes his eyes again momentarily, breaths slowing as Tony’s voice again sounds in his head.

_“That’s it, Pete. Keep going. Three things you can feel.”_

Peter continues to murmur aloud. “Rock. My clothes… Wind.” There’s a breeze floating into the little cavern, pushing his hair back, and Peter can almost imagine it’s Tony’s gentle fingers on his scalp.

_“Two things you smell.”_

“Rain. Dirt.”

_“Taste.”_

“Uh… morning breath,” the corner of Peter’s lips quirks up, and he can hear his mentor’s chuckle.

_“Good job, Kid.”_

Peter’s eyes open in alarm. “Wait, don’t leave-”

But Tony isn’t here, he never was, and Peter sinks back against the rock wall in disappointment and slight embarrassment. He just had a full conversation with his imagination.

Lucky Mr. Stark isn’t actually here to see him in this state.

He rubs his hands over his face, shaky in the aftereffects of the attack. As his heartbeat slows its pounding in his ears and his breathing deepens, he realizes he feels… alert? More alert than he thinks he’s been in a long time.

_You’ve been drugged._

Great, talking to himself again.

Drugged. He can remember the feel of the sedatives the men had given him coursing through his veins, turning his thoughts into sluggish jumbles, his muscles to jelly. For a long time, he remembers knowing fear and pain. Nothing more.

Finally it comes to him, in a flash, a memory where he’d forgotten to be searching for one: the explosions. The building had rocked and thunder had boomed through the air and dust had fallen from the ceiling. And he was _free._ He remembers the desperation that had come over him as he realized he’d been left unshackled with no guards in the panic. Even through his drug-hazed mind, he’d recognized the opportunity. And he bolted.

The facility had descended into chaos, and it had been on Peter’s side as he’d run through the building, the ceiling crumbling over his head, chunks of debris falling in his path. He’d pushed past black-clad men with weapons in hand darting through the hallways to face whatever threat was bombarding them, none of them taking the time to notice the boy that slipped through their midst.

Peter had made it to the crumbling outer wall before someone noticed him, shouting an alarm before Peter turned and socked him in the jaw.

The man had dropped, but Peter’s cover was blown, and his movements had become even more desperate as he’d punched through the small hole lined with cracks already in the outer wall with little regard for his own knuckles.

He’d broken free, an opening barely big enough for him to fit through, just as more shouts sounded behind him, and he’d rapidly clambered through the ruined wall straight into- a forest.

There was a small clearing around the building he had just been inside, but beyond that, trees stretched in every direction. Bright sunlight that he hadn’t seen in- how long? -assaulted his eyes.

Barely pausing to consider his next course of action, Peter had followed his gut. He’d _run._

Now Peter sits, his head clearer and much more comprehending than it had been yesterday when drugs and adrenaline and desperation had been clouding his mind. He had dashed madly through the woods; the only thought, streamlined in his mind, was to get away from the place that had been his living nightmare for so long.

Thinking back on his escape, for the first time he wonders who exactly it was that had been doing the exploding, who his captors had been fighting against. _My enemy’s enemy_ and all that. The explosions had been earth-shaking, recurrent. He couldn’t imagine any kind of land vehicles that would have been able to get that artillery through the trees surrounding the complex, which likely meant aircraft. Something with lots of gunpower and a serious grudge against his captors…

The thought slips into Peter’s mind simply, completely unbidden, and yet it blindsides him, wrenching Peter’s gut with its force.

Could it…

Could it have possibly been…

The Avengers?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for trying out my first fic!!! I thrive off of feedback, so drop a kudos and/or comment, tell me if there's a part you liked or tell me about your day, idc, and we'll see if I can get another update out! I'll also probably be posting something else I'm working on sometime soon, so keep an eye out for that if you wanna. Thanks again for reading!!! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's plan to rescue his kid turns out to be a little more complicated than he'd bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! Thank you SO much for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter, and all the support you've given me!! I majorly lost inspiration for this chapter, and I don't like it very much, but after a week or so of never getting the motivation to attempt editing or rewriting, I've finally decided to just post it. And I'm trying to get the inspiration to write the next chapter, but my brain keeps wandering off and so I've written a ton for another fic to avoid this one lol.
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyway, and Happy Thanksgiving to my friends in the US!

Tony groans as he fumbles for the little release catch at his neck. It already took enough of an effort to get the dead suit encasing his arm to move up to reach it. He really needs to make his suits easier to handle when they’re out of power. In his defense, they rarely lose power. There haven’t been a lot of instances he’s had to think about that particular kind of upgrade. It’s impressive enough that he thought to install the release lever.

Finally his fingers snag the little catch on his armor, and the suit opens with a hiss, retracting from his limbs and allowing him to sit up and run a hand through his sweaty hair, fingers pausing over a wet lump on the back of his head as he looks around, taking in his surroundings.

Another groan issues from his lips. He’s landed right in the middle of the forest, nothing else in sight but trees and rocks and ferns and leaves… and a busted, immovable suit of armor. His comms went out as he was going down.

He glances down to see his fingers come away red from his skull.

Tony lets out a curse. Of all the twisted luck, of course the enemy would have some kind of EMP tech to completely knock out his systems. And if it knocked out his systems, it’s likely knocked out Rhodey’s as well. Meaning Rhodey probably hadn’t received the distress signal he’d sent out going down. Or even if he had, he is powerless to do anything about it. And they’re much too far away for it to have done any use even if Pepper had received the signal on the other side of the world.

Tony’s on his own, in the middle of the jungle in the middle of this supposedly uninhabited island that they had finally, _finally,_ tracked the men down to.

The men that had taken Peter.

And with that, Tony’s mind goes into one-track mode. He surges to his feet, thoughts flooded with anxiety that eclipses all else. _Peter, Peter, Peter._

That’s what he and Rhodey are here for. To get his kid back. His kid who has been missing for over a _month._

Who knows what could have happened to him in that time?

But Tony refuses to even let his mind go there. If he does, his imagination will sink its claws into his brain and never let go, flooding his thoughts with images of Peter hurt in all manner of ways, Peter _d-_

He’s let those thoughts take control too many times in the past month. Now he needs clarity. He needs to be the one in control. Peter’s life could depend on it.

He sets off into the forest.

* * *

It’s taken Tony over an hour to reach this vantage point high on a hill. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting to accomplish, but it’s a general rule of thumb to get to a high point and scope out your surroundings.

He had to leave his suit behind. He feels exposed, vulnerable, but it just wasn’t plausible to drag the armor around in hopes of coming across some sort of tech that would help him get it back online.

His mind is racing to figure out what he can do next. Maybe if he spots the enemy base, makes his way to it, and sneaks inside; finds the tools he needs to fix his suit, rescues Peter, finds Rhodey… 

The sun is getting low. Much too low. He’ll never make it close to the base in the first place before it gets too dark for him to safely travel.

He needs food, too, and water. 

Tony scans the valley around him, hands coming up to rub at his elbows. It’s deceptively beautiful, filled with trees of the darkest green that spill down the sides of the mountains surrounding him and flood the valley floor. But he’ll have to go higher up to get a good view of where exactly the clearing for the enemy camp is. 

He’s never felt so limited, so helplessly grounded since the moment he found out he could fly. In his suit he could cross this valley in 2 minutes; on foot, it would take him days.

There is a pit in his stomach. _How?_ How is he ever going to fix this? To find his kid?

Tony curses himself for taking off so stupidly fast the moment they’d gotten the information worked out, thinking he and Rhodey could simply blast a few holes in the enemy HQ and that would be that. But they’d been spotted much sooner than he and Rhodey had hoped, and before he knew it, he’d been free falling from the sky.

How had it all gone downhill so quickly?

Now he’s stranded in the middle of _nowhere_ , no tech, no supplies to even get him through the night, his best friend is missing too, and the sun is inching ever closer to the horizon, and he’s surrounded by an insurmountable sea of trees, and beyond that a literal ocean thousands of miles wide, and his only means of transportation is smoking in the distance, Tony can see the thin trail wafting up through the trees-

… in a different direction than the way he came from.

Right?

Is he that turned around?

No. No, he _knows_ he came from- over there, where an identically light stream of smoke spills into the sky. That one is from his suit, which means the other smoke-

_Rhodey._

* * *

It’s growing far too dark.

The sun is halfway behind a hill already, and Tony’s close, he _knows_ he is, but the thin waft of smoke he can occasionally glimpse through the trees is growing ever thinner, and the movement of the sun is throwing his bearings off.

He doesn’t really know what he’ll do when he finds Rhodey’s suit. Would it be better to find his friend still inside it, unconscious or hurt, or to find it empty, Rhodey having wandered off into the woods just like he did?

Maybe he should have sat by his suit and waited for Rhodey to come to him.

Nope. That wouldn’t have lasted long. He’s never been one to sit around and wait for rescue, especially when two of the people he cares most about could be-

A snap sounds through the forest around Tony and he freezes, whipping his head to the right.

No movement catches Tony’s eye but the trees are growing obscured by dimness. 

It’s silent for only a few moments before the light crunching of footsteps comes into Tony’s range of hearing.

He glances around, thinking quickly. Rhodey? An enemy? The footsteps are headed his way. His best bet is probably to find a vantage point where he can figure out who it is without being seen.

He takes two slow, careful steps to his left, grips a tree limb, and pulls himself up into the branches as silently and swiftly as possible. The tree he picked is thick with foliage, and he climbs to a spot on the opposite side of the trunk just as a figure steps into view between a pair of trees.

The man is clad all in black, including a helmet that makes him look like a member of a SWAT team. The look is completed by a rifle in his hands.

_Definitely the enemy._

The man moves forward, quickly but carefully placing each footstep, his gun held half-raised.

Tony edges further behind the trunk, holding his breath, reaching out to steady himself on a branch, but instead a stick snaps off in his hand.

He freezes.

The man below slowly turns his head, up toward the branches where Tony hides, eyes searching the shadows.

Tony wills himself to stay perfectly still, balanced there on the branch.

This is what he hates, crouching here like a rabbit on the wrong end of a gun, when normally he could lift a hand and the man before him would drop in half a second.

The rifle lifts slowly until the barrel is pointed directly at the leaves that shield Tony from view, and Tony knows he has to act. With a twitch of the hand, he flings the stick away into the forest. The gathering darkness covers its arc until it lands with a light crash ten or so meters away. By some stroke of luck, the stick continues to make a scuffling noise through the underbrush as it rolls down an incline, and the man whirls, firing a reflexive shot off into the darkness.

After a brief pause, the man moves rapidly off in the direction of the sound, rifle still held at the ready, and it’s only when the man has long disappeared into the trees and the soft crunching of his footsteps has faded that Tony relaxes and makes his way back down to the ground.

Both feet firmly planted, Tony arches his back, stretching. He’s way too old to be climbing trees.

Glancing around to gather his bearings once more, Tony sets off into the forest.

* * *

The last rays of sun have disappeared, the night air rapidly growing frigid, when Tony finally, miraculously, stumbles across the War Machine suit. The light of the miniscule flashlight on his watch reflects off of the gleaming armor.

It lies on the ground, open.

Empty.

Tony’s heart sinks, even as a voice in his head tells him he’d known all along that this is what he’d find.

He should feel relieved, and he is, that Rhodey is obviously uninjured enough to climb out of the suit and wander into the woods. He hasn’t always been so lucky.

But how is he ever going to find his friend now?

The man most likely did the same thing Tony did, following the smoke to Tony’s busted suit. But by morning the smoke will have completely dissipated, he won’t be able to find it again.

Could he risk starting a fire? That smoke might attract Rhodey. But it might also attract unwanted visitors, the enemy from the camp that he now knows are scouting the woods too.

Tony runs a hand down his face, an old habit that ends with his fingertips trailing to the point of his goatee.

Rhodey could be anywhere in this vast wood.

The best Tony can do tonight is find a shelter, somewhere nearby, and attempt some kind of rest until the morning.

In the morning, he’ll figure out a way to find Rhodey. He’s a genius like that.

And then he and Rhodey will switch up their strategy, sneak into the base, and rescue his kid.

They’ll find a way.

Tony turns away from the busted suit, back towards the way he came from. He wonders if there are any caves in the mountain, or if he can find-

_“Tony.”_

The hiss stops him right in his tracks, not having taken even two steps.

_“Tones, is that you?”_

Tony spins around. A few meters away from the prone suit of armor, the huge leaves of a taro plant rustle and lift to reveal-

“Honeybear!” Tony exclaims, taking a few quick steps toward his friend, who blinks quickly and holds up a palm to the light of Tony’s watch. “Fancy seeing you here! Turns out you were smarter than I gave you credit for, I thought I’d have to scour the whole jungle-”

“Tones,” Rhodey cuts in, ignoring the hand Tony offers to pull him up. “I’m grounded.”

“So am I, they got both of us with that blasted EMP,” Tony replies, but Rhodey interrupts again.

“No, I mean my braces. They’re busted.”

Tony stills, stomach sinking. Drops his hand, and then scans the darkness around them, breathing out a curse as his palm makes its way down his face again.

_Of course._

Just when he thought this rotten luck was starting to turn around. He’d found his only ally in the middle of an immense forest on a not-so-unpopulated island, only hours after getting shot down.

Tony should have knocked on some wood.

“Like… _busted,_ busted?” Tony asks, dropping into a crouch beside his friend. “Like-”

“Busted, busted,” Rhodey affirms. “I can’t move at all.”

Tony rubs his forehead again. “Then how’d you-” he makes a motion with his hands from the broken armor to Rhodey’s position leaned against the trunk of a tree behind the large bush.

“What, get over here?” Rhodey asks. “I know how to army crawl, Tony. I knew someone would follow the smoke eventually, I was just hoping it would be you and not crazy-island-kidnapper-dudes.”

Tony huffs out a chuckle, but it leaves his lips bitter. Every time his mind manages to slip away, it’s brought back forcibly, painfully to their purpose for being here in the first place. “Some rescue attempt this is, I suppose.”

Rhodey must see something in his face, even in the dim beam of Tony’s watch light, because he reaches a hand out to shake Tony’s knee once. “Hey, we tracked him this far. We’re not about to turn tail and leave just because the bad guys have some scary toys. You built the most advanced set of armor the world had ever seen out of scrap metal in the middle of the desert, I think there’s something we could do with two suits fully functioning aside from the presence of an electromagnetic pulse.”

Tony feels a small smile grow in spite of himself. “Is that a compliment I hear, Platypus? Have you finally given in and acknowledged my genius?”

“Hey, I’ll acknowledge your genius as long as you’re not ‘acknowledging’ it yourself. And when you start acknowledging it again, I’ll deny this conversation ever happened, don’t think I won’t.”

The fond smile stretches Tony’s cheeks, eyes closing for a moment. “I’m glad you’re alright, Rhodes.”

“Me too, Tony.” Rhodey nods. “I’m glad you’re alright too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short... But I thought I owed at least a little more to those of you who have been so kind in encouraging me so far!
> 
> As I've told anyone who will listen, I am trash at dialogue so please don't expect much from me in that aspect of my writing. If you have any helpful advice for me in that regard, please do share! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony and Rhodey continue their trek through the jungle, and so does Peter, trying to stay out of trouble, but there's no accounting for Parker Luck.
> 
> (Yes, I suck at summaries I'm sorry.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I didn't realize how long it's been since I updated, sorry, the next chapter is giving me trouble. Also school's starting up again so *cringe*
> 
> Anyway hope you all had happy holidays and enjoy this next chapter!! It's a tad longer than the last two and I've got more of our boi Peter's pov for you!

Tony wakes to the first dim rays of sunlight cutting through the trees around him. The early-morning air is cold and damp, he feels the chill of it between his toes and where his shoulder touches the moist earth. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Tony uses one hand to rub the grit out of his eyes.

They had built a makeshift shelter last night, Tony finding several branches to create a basic frame leaned against a forked tree, and Rhodey picking a multitude of the huge taro leaves which had proved surprisingly effective in keeping the rain off of them as they slept. The inside of their little hut is only slightly wet.

Tony’s glad now that he’d taken the precaution of setting out one of the large, curved pieces of Rhodey’s armor to collect rainwater while they slept. Despite the cool humidity, Tony is parched, and if they can risk starting a fire, they’ll finally have clean water at least.

Tony crawls gingerly out of the shelter, careful not to wake Rhodey who is curled up beside him. Standing and stretching, he scans the area around their little camp. The growing sunlight filtering through the trees that tower over them is burning away the last wisps of mist. Every large leaf of the jungle plants around him sparkles with leftover raindrops.

Tony winces as he lowers his arms. His back is sore from sleeping on the rough ground. He’s done it quite often on various missions, but it’s less forgiving as he grows older.

Rubbing his arms briskly to scrub away some of the chill, Tony sets about on his first task: building a fire. A challenging endeavor, as the majority of the vegetation around him is soaked through. But although Tony wasn’t a Boy Scout, he _is_ an Avenger, and he knows the tricks for finding dry wood even in wet weather.

(He silently, begrudgingly thanks those “training” sessions that the military-trained Avengers had held soon after they had officially assembled.)

As he gathers the driest bits of wood he can find, Tony wonders how much Rhodey knows about edible plants and fruits in tropical areas. His own memory isn’t perfect, loathe though he would be to admit it; he’s forgotten many of the defining characteristics of the vegetation that is safe to eat.

Tony’s finally gotten a spark to catch, and the sun is a few fingers above the horizon when Rhodey stirs.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Tony throws over his shoulder as he adds the smallest twigs and dry leaves he found to his pile.

“You couldn’t think of a line that’s a little less overused?” Rhodey groans as he pushes himself into a sitting position.

“You know what, you’re right, it’s not very accurate,” Tony replies, carefully feeding his growing flame. “‘Sleeping Ugly’ is more like it.”

“Oh, now, that’s _real_ witty.”

“It’s truth, is what it is.” Tony can only guess that Rhodey’s rolling his eyes at his back.

After a breakfast of the roasted roots of the taro plant that Rhodey dug up, as well as the boiled clean rainwater, Tony fiddles with Rhodey’s braces for a good while. It’s a remarkably simple problem, but Tony’s never realized how much he takes a screwdriver for granted. He uses a few scraps of metal from Rhodey’s suit as his makeshift tools, and though quite difficult, they do the job.

While he works, Tony’s mind can’t help but wander back to Peter, and by the time the braces are fixed, he’s itching to get going. The sun is already high and every minute that passes is another minute that Peter could be harmed.

Rhodey must sense his anxiety because the moment he can walk, he’s up and clearing away all traces of their camp. The two of them scatter the branches of their little fort and the cooled ashes from their fire. They litter brush around the small clearing and soon it looks as though man has never set foot in the area.

The War Machine suit is dragged under a large cluster of plants. Most of the suit’s parts are unusable, damaged beyond what he can repair without some real tools and replacement parts. But two of the pieces of tech that are miraculously still functional are both the tiny tracker embedded in the suit, and the gadget that keeps track of his other suits’ locations. Tony carefully removes the latter, and with a little bit of fiddling he is able to wire the piece to display both his own location and the location of the War Machine tracker. That way they can make it back to the suit should the need arise.

With that, they take off on their trek through the woods.

* * *

Peter isn’t sure why his ankle hasn’t healed as fast as it normally would. Maybe it’s some side effect of being tortured for an indeterminable amount of time, breaking and healing and breaking again. Maybe his healing factor has thrown up its hands in exasperation, pushed to the limit and ready for a hiatus.

All he knows is that his ankle is only about half healed after a long night in the cave. Ironically, with the drugs out of his system he can feel the pain radiating up his leg much more clearly than he had yesterday on his blurred scramble for shelter.

But despite the sharp throbbing, Peter soon finds himself among the trees once again, stumbling over rocks and pushing through leafy greenery. He lifts hanging branches and steps through ferns, and the dewdrops glistening on each frond dampen his clothes as he brushes by. Some kind of birds that sound radically different from the pigeons in Queens sing from their obscured perches in the high branches around him. Visible beams of sunlight push through the towering trees and create dappled spots across the forest floor. Peter wishes he had his camera to capture this incredible lighting among the rich jungle green.

The thought punches all the air from his lungs more effectively than a physical blow. He hasn’t thought of something as everyday, as normal as a camera in a long while. The aching for _home,_ for tv and carpet and mac & cheese and legos and paper homework and everything mundane ever only drains more air from his lungs, and his palm scrapes the rough bark of a tree as he struggles to inhale.

He presses his other hand to his chest, _don’t panic, don’t panic._ _Stay in the present._

He takes in a shuddering breath.

Opening his eyes which he hadn’t realized had closed, he limps onward.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He needs to find… water, and food, and help.

He’d taken a drink from a puddle in the rock near his cave, knowing it was unsafe but too thirsty to care. But he has next to zero knowledge of where to find edible plants or any other kind of nourishment in a tropical rainforest.

Turning to yesterday’s events, he wonders, for maybe the thousandth time since crawling out of the cave, if his Parker Luck could have possibly given him a break just this once. If maybe, just maybe, the attackers on the enemy base could have been the Avengers. He’ll settle for SHIELD, even some foreign government that might be persuaded to merely give him a lift home.

But that all hinges on the assumption that the attackers are still around, that if they are, he can figure out some way to contact them.

He’s considered making a fire. Smoke signals are common and easy to follow, right?

Too easy. What if the men at the base are looking for him? What if they see the signal and get to him first?

He’s headed uphill again, his progress slow with his limp and the additional weakness from having eaten little-to-nothing in the past 24 hours.

He sits on a rock and rests his head in his hands for a short while, but that only welcomes the intrusive thoughts, and soon he is up and climbing again. He’s trying not to think of everything that’s happened, trying to push away the memories of torture and the tense, jumpy feeling that’s invading. He’s trying not to think about how much he misses home, May and Ned, MJ and everyone else on AcaDec, lab days with Mr. Stark, swinging around the city. He’s trying not to think about any of it, but the more he tries, the harder those thoughts push into his mind. It’s been so long, a lifetime since he was in Queens, and the more he remembers, the less real it all becomes. This is his life, this jungle that is rapidly growing hot and sticky, the foliage that crunches under his toes and the leaves that brush his bare ankles and arms.

Where in the world might he be? South America is a guess. He certainly doesn’t believe he’s in North America anymore. He wishes he’d learned more about geography, about the landscapes of different parts of the world. Some island, maybe? Or somewhere in southeast Asia? It’s crazy to think that he could be on the opposite side of the globe from where he’s grown up his whole life.

His bad foot slips on some loose underbrush and he stumbles, righting himself carefully. He doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday. One sprained ankle is enough, thank you.

As he continues to climb, the sun rises higher and higher, reaching its peak and then beginning to lower again. His legs ache from his slow ascent, the soles of his feet sting and his palms are scraped from assisting when the climb gets steep. Not to mention the increasing throbbing in his ankle. Sweat beads across his skin, soaking his hairline, running down his back, staining the pits of his ragged t-shirt. Dampening places he doesn’t usually notice it, like the backs of his knees and behind his ears. Dirt is clumping under his nails, smeared across his palms, coating his feet, and no doubt rubbed across his face from the multitude of times he’s tried to wipe away the perspiration. He’s never wanted a shower so badly in his life.

His head is starting to feel fuzzy again, most definitely from a lack of nutrients. But he just has to make it up this mountain, and then he can see where he is, and look for any signs of water, or good guys, or bad guys, or even just a hint to tell him where in the world he is.

He keeps climbing.

Peter feels like he’s on the brink of collapse, only adrenaline keeping him going, when the ground begins to level out. Breathing heavily, he takes a minute to sit down again, hands in his hair. He’s exhausted, but he has to keep going before the sun gets too low. Dragging himself back to his feet, he limps to the tallest of the trees in the area.

It takes him much longer than it normally would to climb the tree. He avoids using his left foot as much as possible, clutching branches and dragging himself up mostly with his hands. His stickiness certainly helps, without it Peter never would have attempted the climb in his condition. He hauls himself from branch to branch, grunting as his energy wanes.

When he at last reaches the highest branch that looks like it will hold him, he sits, resting his head back against the trunk of the tree and closing his eyes. He feels drained, pain shoots from various parts of his body, and his stomach aches deeply, berating him for not feeding it in over 24 hours.

When he opens his eyes, the sun appears lower than he remembered, the air cooler, and he wonders if he might have passed out for a bit. Or perhaps the climb just took longer than he thought, and he’d lost track of the time. He gingerly stands and edges out along the branch until he can push the canopy of leaves away, squinting into the lowering sun.

The view that greets him is awe-inspiring.

Rich green spreads out as far as the eye can see, blanketing a wide valley and the hills that surround it. The sky above is deep blue, pink tinges gathering on the horizon, preparing to receive the late afternoon sun. He stands near the summit of one of the tallest mountains, perched on the tip of his branch, golden sunlight illuminating his face and a cool wind rushing to tousle his curls.

He laughs, suddenly, surprising himself, his cheeks aching with the stretch of those muscles that haven’t seen use in an eternity.

For just a moment he forgets where he is and where he came from, he forgets the ache deep in every bone, he forgets the dark shadows and cold metal and colder scientists with unfeeling hands. He forgets scalpels and wires and excruciating pain.

Tilting his nose up into the sun, he spreads his arms and laughs again. Rose on the ship couldn’t have felt more like the king of the world than he on his towering branch, far above the canopy of green, with the wind swirling around him and the rustling leaves and the sun on his face and birds taking flight spiraling into the blue, blue sky.

He stands there for a long while, just feeling the air rushing past his face, eyes closed to soak in the golden light that burns through his eyelids. He can hear birds calling through the forest around him, and all across the valley. The wind pushes the branches so they sway, slowly, back and forth to brush each of their neighbors. The rustling is a soft undercurrent to the multitude of jungle sounds, chirping and calling and crunching and- rushing water.

_Water._

Peter slowly blinks his eyes open, squinting, a hazy blue coating his vision in the residue of the orange sun.

Running water is good, running water is some of the cleanest there is. He suddenly feels lightheaded, remembering his long trek and his parched throat. He’s in the middle of the jungle with no help in sight. He needs to stop drifting off into his head, getting lost in his own mind.

Turning carefully on his branch, he gazes in all directions, trying to spot a hint of the water or any other landmark. Without his enhanced vision, he probably wouldn’t catch the sparkle of the sun glinting off of a stream where it tumbles over the edges of a short cliff. But as it is, he spots the glimmer through a break in the dense tree branches, and after checking his bearings with the sun, he’s headed back down to the forest floor.

His energy is fading rapidly now as he lowers himself from branch to branch. He’s starting to wonder if his strength will keep up long enough for him to even reach the water.

If it doesn’t … well.

He’s also desperately racking his brain for anything he’s ever learned about edible plants in the jungle. But if he has learned it, his mind has considered the information useless and dumped it in that big dark pit where Bing-Bong died… isn’t that that elephant character’s name? Part elephant, part cotton candy, part dolphin, part… a bunch of other things that Peter’s increasingly fuzzy mind can’t seem to dredge up.

Gosh, he’d kill for a cheeseburger right now.

Well, maybe not literally. Killing is a no-no for Spider-Man.

Maybe he’d die for a cheeseburger.

But then he couldn’t eat it. Are there cheeseburgers in heaven? He certainly thinks there should be.

Peter accidentally places his left foot on a branch, using it to support his weight as he adjusts his other limbs. A sharp bolt of pain shoots up his leg and he gives an involuntary cry. His waning concentration is diverted from his efforts to stick to the tree trunk, and he abruptly falls a few feet before catching himself with a jolt on a lower branch.

Arms slung over the top of the limb, Peter makes a face, mentally berating himself.

_Concentrate, Parker._

Carefully maneuvering himself back to a climbing position, he again descends the tree.

He doesn’t look down. He only focuses on each placement of his hands or his foot, lifting his left leg out of the way so he doesn’t make the same painful mistake.

When he reaches the ground, his legs feel shaky and light gray spots are swimming across his vision. Glancing to the setting sun, Peter begins to trudge in the direction he had seen the waterfall. His ankle hurts even worse than this morning, somehow, and when he looks down, his foot looks puffy and red, his ankle painted with purple splotches. But maybe that’s to be expected after walking on it all day without a bite of food to fuel his healing factor.

His limping progress is slow and his surroundings grow darker between every blink. He doesn’t remember much of the trek, he only knows he has to get to the water.

He's utterly exhausted, and he doesn’t even feel very thirsty or hungry anymore. But something tells him that if he stops to lie down he might never get up.

When he finally reaches the little waterfall, it’s dark enough that the silhouettes of the trees can only just be distinguished from the sky. He’s stumbling through the leafy plants, mind only on one track: _get to the water._

He collapses at the stream’s edge, thrusting his hands into the swift coolness and bending his head to gulp water from his palms. He repeats the motion again and again, splashing himself but not caring about the wetness.

When he’s satisfied his thirst, he finally slows his frantic movements, head beginning to clear just a little. He dips his hands in the running water again and scrubs his face, shivering and scrunching his shoulders as the water runs down his arms and neck.

The temperature has again cooled rapidly with the setting of the sun. Peter shakes his hands out and gazes at his dark surroundings. Now that he’s drunk his fill, his exhaustion is taking over, enveloping him whole and overpowering all other rational thought.

He stands, hoping to find some moderate shelter, but his bad ankle gives out from underneath him. He hits the ground on his hands and knees, wanting to just curl up right there and pass out. But he’s too exposed, it’s too open right next to the stream.

Dragging himself back to his feet, he limps, touching his left foot to the ground as little as possible, through the brush at the edge of the stream and back into the trees. He pulls himself up a short incline and then crawls to the base of a huge boulder that probably helps make up the cliff that the stream tumbles off of.

He doesn’t have the energy to make it any farther. Curling his knees in, Peter tucks himself mostly behind a large tree that grows close to the rock, settling his head on a soft and leafy plant that flattens under his weight. As soon as he lets his eyelids drop, he’s out.

* * *

It’s Peter’s danger sense that wakes him the next morning.

His first thought upon opening his eyes is that the sun is quite high, his exhaustion must have induced him to sleep well into the morning.

In the next moment he registers the prickling on his neck and immediately goes on the alert, eyes darting around him as he remains perfectly still.

It’s rapidly apparent what the cause of the tingle is: footsteps crunching through the foliage nearby.

Peter holds his breath but the soft crunching only grows nearer until a man in dark clothing comes into view. He knows immediately that the man somehow has knowledge of where he is; his eyes are fixed on Peter’s position hidden among the rich greenery, and his path is the very definition of a beeline for Peter’s little hiding spot.

What Peter does next is… not the best decision he’s ever made.

Panic takes full command of his sluggish brain’s controls. He launches to his feet and the man’s gun is instantly trained on him. Placing his palms to the tall boulder at his back, Peter rapidly scrambles upward. His brain's backseat driver of, well, crime fighting vigilante screams twenty different plans at once, most of them being some variation of _web him up!_

Why aren’t backseat drivers ever helpful?

“Come down or I will shoot,” the man says in a heavily accented voice.

Peter stills five or so feet above the ground, trying to wrestle the steering wheel back from fight-or-flight. He’s been in a million situations like this before -but he’s always had his webs, a mask to hide his emotions behind.

He’s just begun to formulate a plan -jump over the man, knock him out on the way, try not to get shot- when he hears more crunching, at least two or three more sets of feet hurrying his way.

Peter’s eyes dart in that direction. Backup. How did they all find him? He’s not sure he’s in good enough condition to take out several enemies, he’s long past hungry now and utterly drained of energy.

That’s all it takes for panic to seize hold of his mind once more, and he instinctively begins to scramble upward again.

The man jolts, startled by the action. His finger squeezes the trigger.

A loud bang pierces Peter’s eardrums, his fingers lose their grip on the rock behind him, and he drops, dead weight, to the forest floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I'm sorry
> 
> In my defense, every author has to do at least one literal cliffhanger at some point!
> 
> I'm working on the next chapter but boy is it hard to capture Tony & Rhodey's dynamic! I love their relationship so much but I can't write it for the life of me. But I'll keep plugging away at it for you lovelies, and I'm also working on another project that I'm excited about so keep an eye out! Much love and hugs <3<3<333


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Strikes a dramatic pose* Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for.
> 
> The reunion!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of the iconic Rick Riordan:
> 
> To my wonderful readers:  
> Sorry about that last cliff-hanger.  
> Well, no, not really. HAHAHAHA.  
> But seriously, I love you guys.
> 
> I'm not as heartless as him, my cliffhanger pales in comparison and here the next chapter is only a week after the last one!! I worked long and hard at it instead of doing my homework, thanks to the incredible response! ;) Love you guys!!! <333

It’s just after noon, by the looks of the sun, when Rhodey motions for Tony to stop. “Hold it,” he mutters.

“What is it?”

Rhodey slowly turns. “I thought I heard…”

Rhodey spots a glint of metal and shoves Tony to the side just as the gun fires, the bullet whizzing over their heads as they scramble into the underbrush.

This guy is a little better at stealth than the last one Tony had said he’d encountered. Then again, two people tramping through the jungle must make a touch more noise than one.

Tony looks to Rhodey, and he looks back as the man’s crunching footsteps approach. The noise comes close and then stops on the other side of the tree surrounded by ferns that the two men are crouched behind.

Tony reaches slowly for a stick, and then once it’s in his grasp he yeets it into the foliage a ways away. (Yes, Peter taught Rhodey the word _yeet._ )

The footsteps don’t move. The man definitely saw them dive over here. Rhodey rolls his eyes at Tony, who spreads his hands. “Hey, it worked last time,” he whispers.

Suddenly a voice starts speaking some foreign language that Rhodey isn’t familiar with, and he shrugs when Tony looks over for interpretation. Tony rolls his eyes this time and Rhodey flips him off in turn. He can’t expect him to know every language in the world.

The man stops speaking, and then his voice comes again, but in halting English this time.

“Come out. I know you are here. I will shoot.”

Rhodey and Tony look at each other. With a lot of flappy hand gestures and head shakes and eyerolls and less cordial hand gestures, they make the mutual decision to come out.

The attacker has moved on to a different language, likely repeating the command, but he stops speaking when the two men crawl from their hiding space and stand, raising their hands to shoulder height.

It looks like another SWAT team member, dressed head to toe in black, which must be absolutely sweltering in the jungle humidity. He begins to speak again in the same language, but pauses confusedly when Tony waves a hand.

“Uh, no- no, English?” Tony asks, speaking the word with exaggerated pronunciation. _“No hablo español.”_

“That’s not Spanish, Tony,” Rhodey mutters.

“I know, I’m just- I’m trying-”

“Yes, English,” the man says.

“Yes! English!” Tony says.

“You come with me or I will shoot you now.”

“...Right,” Tony says.

* * *

They’ve been tromping through the jungle for maybe two hours or so and Tony’s already managed to annoy their captor to high heaven. He’s asked all sorts of questions and told all sorts of jokes and complained about everything from the gnats to the pace. A bullet to the leg has been threatened more than once, but Rhodey doesn’t believe the guy will follow through on account of bullets in legs being generally detrimental to speed.

Tony seems to have come to the same conclusion.

“Who _are_ you looking for, if you’re not looking for us?” Tony’s asked the same question oh, only about twenty times.

The most useful bit of information that Tony’s been able to drag out of the man so far is that the device that beeps every so often in their captor’s hands is some kind of people… radar? Something to do with heat signatures, Rhodey’s never been the tech guy of the duo, and the man’s limited English makes it even more difficult to understand.

Rhodey knows Tony is just irritated because they’re marching away from the base and Peter, but his friend’s constant nagging is starting to get on even his nerves.

The man appears to feel the same way, because he stops abruptly and turns to Tony with a clenched jaw. “We are looking for a- how do you say… experiment.” His tone is abrupt and irritated. “A experiment ran into the trees, and now we are finding it.”

He turns stiffly and continues to march forward, but something has clicked in Rhodey’s mind and he hurries to grab the man’s shoulder. “What- what do you mean, experiment? What kind of experiment runs into the jungle?”

The man rounds on Rhodey, jerking his gun up, and Rhodey takes a quick step or two back, hands at shoulder height.

“A _boy,_ a boy we study who walks on walls, now do not ask more questions or I will shoot you!” He turns to Tony. “And you-”

Tony, closer than the man had expected, winds his fist back and punches him square across the jaw.

Rhodey blinks in surprise as the man drops to the forest floor.

Tony’s apparently come to the same conclusion, then.

Peter’s not at the base.

Peter’s somewhere in the jungle.

* * *

“You know, you couldn’t have socked the dude a little earlier?” Rhodey asks.

The two of them had left their captor lying there with just enough supplies to likely make it back to the base, against Tony’s wishes. They’d taken the heat signature thingamajigger, and now they’re climbing in the same direction that the man had been leading them earlier.

“Figured I might as well get as much info as I could outta him first, and look where it got us,” Tony glances at his friend with eyebrows raised. Rhodey can see tightness in his jaw now that they might actually be close to finding Peter.

“Oh, so you had everything carefully planned all along?” Rhodey raises an eyebrow back.

Tony rolls his eyes but then sticks his tongue in his cheek for a moment, his words coming surprisingly sincere. “I didn’t have a plan, it was just when he started talking about- about Peter like he…”

“Like he wasn’t a person?”

Tony sighs. “I saw my chance and I just… took it.”

There is silence as the two men push through a large cluster of shoulder-height plants with spiky leaves. When they make it past, they pause in place for a moment, and Rhodey glances at his friend. Tony’s shoulders are stiff, his brow wrinkled in that way it is when he’s trying to hide his anxiety about something.

Rhodey claps his shoulder lightly. “Hey, we’ll find him.”

Tony shakes his head, starting to walk again as he glances away. “He’s on his own in the middle of the hundred-acre _jungle_ , with no food or supplies, Rhodes, we have no idea what condition he’s in after…” he gestures vaguely behind them. “-that.”

“And we have a device that you programmed to Peter’s heat signature,” Rhodey replies firmly. “We’ll _find_ him, Tony.”

Tony had fine-tuned the gadget’s capabilities to specifically hone in on Peter’s slightly-lower-than-normal body temperature. They’d gotten a reading that indicated they’re going in the right direction, but it should get more accurate as they grow nearer. They only have to hope the device is picking up Peter’s temperature and not going off of some kind of animal with a similar signature.

* * *

They eat a few of the meager rations they’d taken from their captor as they walk, but not enough to really satisfy their hunger. It’s unspoken that they want to leave the majority of their tiny stock for Peter when they reach him.

The problem is that they never seem to be getting a much clearer reading from the Peter finder, to Tony’s increasing frustration. Rhodey does his best to soothe the man’s worries, but it’s difficult when he’s working to hide his own concerns at the same time.

Either the SWAT dude was wrong about how the gadget works, or Tony’s fiddling messed up that component of the device. Or Peter’s moving too, climbing uphill even as they struggle to follow.

Rhodey’s not sure how to feel about that last option.

It means Peter’s in good enough condition to move.

—Probably.

The boy isn’t exactly known for keeping off his feet even with significant injuries.

Rhodey pushes that away. The kid knows better than to tromp through the jungle in a less than ideal condition. He’s gotta know that he’s being essentially hunted by his captors- but maybe he thinks he’s better off on the run than hiding in one spot.

Rhodey himself isn’t sure which is best. It would certainly help him and Tony if Peter would stay put and let them come to him. But if the other enemy scouts out there have the same device that they do, staying in one place would also benefit the bad guys. It could essentially be a race to get to the kid first.

Rhodey does his best not to dwell on the other option- that the reading they’re getting is incorrect, that they’re chasing some kind of animal while Peter is lost on the opposite side of the island.

It comes down to trusting that the enemy dude they’d encountered knew what he was doing.

In the late afternoon, Tony finally gets a ping from the device that narrows down Peter’s position more closely. Their excitement is dampened slightly by the fact that they’ve been traveling off course by a few degrees, but they adjust their route and keep hiking through the thick vegetation.

The damp air cools rapidly as the sun touches the horizon -the humidity that had been enhancing the sticky heat of the day now quickly dropping the temperature of the night.

They continue to climb up a towering tree-covered mountain hours after the sun has set, and the surrounding forest has grown pitch black before Rhodey insists that they stop for the night.

Tony makes the same argument he has since Rhodey’s first suggestion to stop -he doesn’t want Peter to be on his own one night more than necessary, and Rhodey feels the same way but he also understands that it’s in Peter’s best interest if they get a modicum of rest tonight. They’re still hours away from the kid, if the device in their hands is to be trusted.

With Rhodey’s forceful coercion, they manage to create a shelter similar to last night’s, and despite Tony’s childish protests that he’s not tired yet, the man drops off to sleep as soon as he lays down inside.

Rhodey takes the time to set up a water trap to refill the flask they’d taken off the man, and then he, too, is out like a light.

* * *

Tony wakes when the first rays of sun are stretching above the horizon, dimly illuminating the thick vegetation around him. He shakes Rhodey awake, who grumbles but hurries to help clean up camp, and soon they’re on the trail (or lack thereof) again.

The sun rises fully as they set off, and soon they’re dripping sweat once more as they slap at the gnats and mosquitoes that buzz around their ears.

The two of them are mostly silent save for grumbles about the pests and occasional remarks on the direction they’re headed. Peter seems to be staying in one spot as far as Tony can tell, which is _(probably)_ a good thing.

The location narrows down the closer they get, and Tony grows more agitated as they draw nearer and nearer to the kid. Excitement and anxiety thrum through his nerves in equal measure, anxious to see what condition the kid is in, anxious to tuck him close to his chest and thread his fingers through his hair and hear words tumble from his lips as they do so often. Anxious to give him the comfort he must so desperately be needing, to protect him from the world for the rest of his life as he’s failed to do so far.

They’re an estimated ten minutes away and Tony’s mind is on one track and one track only, and so when a hand on his shoulder jerks him to a stop, he nearly spins around and punches Rhodey in the face. As it is, he just refrains from bringing his fist up, and Rhodey raises a placating hand.

“Whoa, Tones. Just thought you should check something before we barge in.”

Rhodey’s tone immediately draws Tony’s attention (and worry), and he looks quickly to the heat signature gadget that Rhodey had taken from him when Tony had grown too nervous to focus on it.

He’s unsure for only a moment what the cause of Rhodey’s concern is, and then he spots- “Is that- is that another person?”

“Headed for Peter,” Rhodey nods, “Looks like it.”

Tony looks at his friend, knowing his fear must be showing unhindered in his eyes, and Rhodey looks back solemnly, and they both understand that it can’t possibly be anyone good for Peter.

“Hey, Tony, I don’t want you to rush in there, okay?” Rhodey tries, pulling Tony back as he makes to start off again.

“Peter is in _danger,_ Rhodey.” Tony says, some instinctual anger surfacing. “I don’t care what you _want_ me to do, I’m going to _save my kid!”_

Rhodey follows after him as he sets off with increased vigor. “Tony, you know that’s not what I meant. I’m just saying we should go in with some kind of plan, if we don’t it could only hurt Peter.”

“You make the plan, then,” Tony says, unwilling to pause his hiking to make the jab as forceful as he means it to be. “You make the plan, and I’ll actually be there in time to help Peter.”

Rhodey sighs behind him, but falls into silence as they both turn their focus to pulling in breaths as they hike, climbing as rapidly as they can towards a kid just out of reach.

It feels like the longest ten minutes of Tony’s life, why aren’t they _there_ yet, is Peter just around this bend or just above this rise? And then suddenly Rhodey is pushing against his back from behind, and Tony breaks into a run, and when he sees Peter between the trees his mind feels like it’s short-circuiting, sparks fizzing, shutting down and booting up at the same time, because it’s Peter, it’s his _kid,_ and Tony’s waited weeks for this moment, but the boy is scrambling backwards up a cliff, terror in his eyes, and in front of him stands a dark-clothed man with a gun aimed right at _Peter._ And Tony’s brain has stopped issuing the necessary commands, but Rhodey throws himself forward, and a loud _bang!_ assaults Tony’s ears.

Rhodey bowls over the shooter and the two go down with a heavy thud, but Tony only has eyes for the kid as his lips part, eyebrows pinch the smallest amount, and then, time dragging each second into an hour, Peter drops like a stone from the cliff wall.

Tony’s brain sends desperate signals to his legs, and finally one of them gets through, but he’s not going _fast_ enough, and then he’s there, and Peter lies too still on his side on top of a patch of crumpled foliage.

This can't possibly be happening, not when Tony's _just_ found his kid, not when they're finally _right here._ His brain is definitely shutting down, and he doesn't know how his legs manage to carry him to Peter's side, all he knows is that he's there and his knees are giving out so he's suddenly crouched beside the kid he's waited so long to see.

Tony takes it all in in the split second before his hand rests on the boy’s shoulder: the honey-brown curls falling over Peter’s eyes, the t-shirt and sweats ripped near to shreds and hanging too loosely on his frame, the scratches and bruises mixed with dirt coating every inch of skin that Tony can see, the purplish swelling of his ankle, and most of all his left hand, clenched tightly against his side where crimson blood is leaking between his fingers.

Then Tony’s fingers brush Peter’s shoulder, breathless, praying- and the boy moves, jerks away, “No! No, p-please-” scrambles up on one hand and drags himself a crawling step, two, and then his trembling arm gives out and he collapses with a choked cry. The kid curls in around the wound in his side, shaking, eyes squeezed shut as his face turns into the ground, and a metal vice grips Tony’s heart and squeezes even as he thanks the heavens Peter can even move at all.

Moving more slowly and deliberately closer, Tony makes out the continued whispered pleas tumbling from the boy’s lips. His brain stalls for surely the thousandth time in the last few minutes, because he doesn’t know what to do, he’s not equipped to handle this type of situation, but at the same time some instinct is just begging him to _hold_ the kid.

“Peter,” he whispers.

Peter doesn’t react, still trembling, clutching his side and the other arm half trying to protect his head. “Please- please don’t, please no, I don’t want-”

“Peter,” Tony says.

“Please…”

Tony tentatively reaches out, rests his hand softly on the boy’s arm, and Peter jerks again, whimpers.

“Peter.”

Finally, Peter’s eyes flicker upward, and when their eyes meet Tony swears ten solid seconds go by, both just breathing, unable to believe the other is really here.

Then Peter whispers, small and broken, “Tony?”

A tear doesn’t drop unexpectedly when Tony blinks. Nope, he must be allergic to something in this stupid rainforest.

“It only takes a month of captivity, a few days in the wild, and a bullet to the stomach to get you to call me by my first name, huh?”

It’s weak, Tony knows, but it draws a breath of a laugh from Peter, and that’s all that matters.

_“Tony,”_ the kid says again.

“Don’t wear it out,” Tony murmurs, and pulls his kid into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yep, rereading this chapter I don't like it very much but oh well hopefully you enjoyed, and now they're FINALLY together!!! I did really enjoy writing that end scene. Maybe I'll go back sometime and try to fix some parts in the rest of it that bug me.
> 
> For those curious, I might be about halfway done, but honestly that's a very vague guess and I feel like it will grow longer as I go along lol, which is why I've hesitated to put down a total chapter count.
> 
> And finally, thank YOU for reading!!!! Y'all are literally the best, all the kind comments and encouragements and compliments literally had me crying.
> 
> I will shamelessly beg for more comments, even if it's just a short keysmash or a heart, I will be ecstatic and go straight to my doc to work on the next chapter!! But of course longer comments are treasured and reread over and over. ;) I love you guys!!!! <333


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Launches chapter at you* have ALL the comfort!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been way too long and I have little to show for it, but here take this to make up for the angst of all the chapters so far. I was trying to write more because this is so short but I've given up. It's 4:49am. I can't do thoughts.
> 
> ALSO I almost forgot huge thanks to [chekhovsknife](https://chekhovsknife.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the help when I got stuck on a couple lines! You're amazing my dude! <3
> 
> Also thanks to my intro to computer programming class for teaching me html so I can do links now without searching the web.

They stay like that for a time, everything gone from the world except Peter in Tony’s arms, his warm weight, his too-thin ribs pushing in and out with each puff of air on Tony’s shoulder. He’s still shaking, just shuddering every so often, and Tony’s fingers slip through his matted curls, gently untangling piece by piece.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, whispers, over and over because his brain has defaulted to a loop in his relief. “I’m here. I’m right here, Peter. I’m here.”

Peter’s trembling arms are clutching him tight, fingers clenched in the back of Tony’s shirt like he never wants to let go, and honestly Tony wouldn’t object.

Until Rhodey sets a hand on his shoulder. “Tony.”

His tone brings Tony’s head up, and then the situation comes rushing back, bringing with it an overwhelming flood of panic that makes his head light. Yes, Peter’s here but he’s also  _ bleeding out _ and they’re still in the middle of the jungle on a tropical island with no gear or supplies or means of getting home, and that means Peter could still-

Taking in a shaky breath, Tony gently pushes the kid back just enough to hold his face in his hands and wipe away the tears that are making tracks down his dirt-stained cheeks. Peter’s face is crumpled and he ducks his head. Tony presses a kiss to his forehead before he says “Hey, what do you say we get that hole in your side looked at, huh? I think May would appreciate it if we brought you home with a little less resemblance to Swiss cheese.”

Peter half-laughs, half-sobs and falls back into Tony’s arms, nose tucking into his neck in such a familiar way Tony can almost believe it hasn’t been over a month since they were together. “Don’t worry, Mis’r Stark, I have super healing,” he mumbles.

“Oh, and I suppose that includes simply metabolizing deadly metal projectiles that are blasted into your body at high speeds.”

Tony is rewarded with another huffed laugh. “Mister Stark, I eat bullets for breakfast.”

“That’s a healthy diet,” Tony mutters, then, “Hey, what happened to ‘Tony,’ I thought we were finally getting somewhere.” 

Peter doesn’t respond, just tucking his head further into the man’s shoulder. Tony glances up at Rhodey again and notices his split lip and a growing bruise on his cheekbone, but doesn’t comment just yet. “What do we need to do?” he asks.

Rhodey crouches beside them. “We need to put pressure on the wound, first of all. There’s no exit wound. Which is a good thing…”

_ In some ways, _ Tony can hear implied with Rhodey’s trailing off, but he doesn’t voice it.

Instead he reluctantly pushes Peter away again, one arm supporting his back as he lowers the kid to lie prone on the ground. Peter groans through his teeth as he rests his head back. Rhodey’s got a black jacket in his arms that must belong to-

Tony whips his head around to see the dude who shot Peter lying motionless a few meters away. By the looks of it, Rhodey knocked him out and then removed most of the supplies from his person.

Peter gives a strangled cry and grabs Tony’s hand tightly enough to be painful, and Tony’s attention zeroes back in on the kid. Rhodey is pressing the piece of clothing to the spreading stain on Peter’s shirt. “Hold this there, Tony,” he says when he sees the man looking. “We need to get the bleeding to stop.”

Tony’s free hand moves to the bundled jacket.

“Harder,” Rhodey says.

Tony winces but pushes down until Peter cries out again, face screwed up.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, gently wiggling his other hand to get it out of Peter’s vice-like grip. Much harder and he’ll have a few painfully odd-looking fingers. “Hey, let up.”

Peter’s fingers reluctantly loosen and Tony slips his hand back into Peter’s hair, scratching gently. Peter moves his own hand to clutch the hem of Tony’s shirt, clenching the material in his fist.

Rhodey’s moved back out of Tony’s line of sight, but he returns a moment later with a small first aid kit in his hands. Thank heaven for well-prepared bad guys.

“This doesn’t have everything we need,” Rhodey murmurs, “but it’ll help.”

After Rhodey takes a look at the wound and judges that it miraculously doesn’t look to have hit any vital organs, together they carefully maneuver Peter closer to the cliff, where Tony can lean against the rock wall and hold Peter in his arms in a more comfortable position while they wait for the blood to slow. Tony watches Rhodey scavenge through the unconscious man’s possessions some more and regales Peter with their adventures of the past few days as the boy works on taking strained breaths through the pain. His head is on Tony’s shoulder, Tony’s right arm wrapped around the kid and pressing down on the wound, and his left hand continuing his ministrations through Peter’s curls.

Tony’s never been much of one for physical touch (for many obvious reasons leading to even more obvious poor decisions that he won’t delve into right now) -not until he met Peter. The kid craves it so clearly even Tony couldn’t miss it, and as their relationship grew closer over the past year, Tony found he didn’t mind indulging the boy with shoulder pats, hair tousles, and (eventually) even frequent hugs.

But only now does he realize just how much he’s missed the kid’s warm weight; every inch of him that Peter is leaning against relishes the comforting touch. Peter’s soft locks between his fingers, his gentle breath on his neck. His hand covering Tony’s over the bundled jacket, and the steady rise and fall of his ribcage. It all soothes Tony’s nerves from the past few days  _ -weeks- _ and despite the fact that they’re not out of the woods yet (in the most literal  _ and _ figurative senses of the term), Tony finds tension draining from his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there.

Eventually Rhodey comes back to check on them, and the flow of blood has greatly diminished, to Tony’s relief. They’ve decided not to try and get the bullet out, as that would likely do more hurt than help. The best they can do right now is keep it clean and bandaged so Peter’s healing factor can (hopefully) take care of the rest until they get somewhere with, like, an actual hospital.

It’s incredible, surreal whenever Tony stops to think that they could be headed home soon with Peter in tow. They’re all together now, they’re alive (more or less), and they’ve gathered a small collection of supplies from the enemies they’d taken out.

They just have to find a way to get off of this island.

Tony pulls the blood-soaked jacket away from the wound at Rhodey’s prompting, and Peter gives a low moan. Tony shushes the kid as Rhodey takes out a flask of water. He pours a small amount on Peter’s skin, who jerks and turns to muffle a whimpered  _ “Tony” _ into the man’s shirt.

“Sh, sh, you’re doing good, kid.” Tony pulls Peter closer and murmurs into his hair as Rhodey carefully cleans the wound. “You’re gonna give me whiplash if you keep switching between names. You wanna pick one and stick with it?”

Peter only responds with ragged breaths through his nose, his jaw clenched and lips sealed tight. His hand comes up to fist in Tony’s sleeve until Rhodey is finished.

When his side is neatly bandaged with the small roll in the first aid kit, Peter finally relaxes, cheeks pale and his hairline damp with sweat.

“We gotta get some fluids in you, kid,” Tony says, and Peter grumbles “mmmm,” head tipped back on Tony’s shoulder, but doesn’t otherwise respond.

Rhodey brings another flask and Peter lifts his head wearily to drink. Once he gets the first taste, he takes big, eager gulps, so much so that Rhodey and Tony have to stop him a few times to make sure he’s getting enough breath.

Tony has so many questions about what Peter’s gone through in the past month, but he knows the kid won’t be up to answering all of them now. “Be sure to save some for the whales,” is all he says instead.

Peter leans back, guilt joining the pained lines of his face. “Sorry,” he breathes.

Tony immediately backtracks. “No, no, no, sorry, kid, I didn’t mean- drink as much as you need to. We can always collect more.”

Peter shakes his head, eyes closing. “No, I should’ve thought, I know we don’t have much-”

Tony cuts off his strained apology. “Hey, you forget that Rhodey here was in the military, he could squeeze water out of a rock.” When Peter looks up at him uncertainly, he lowers his voice. “Just don’t tell him I said that, he has a big enough head as it is.”

Rhodey scoffs, but there’s a fond smile on his face as he shakes his head. Peter grins weakly too, and something in Tony just melts at the sight.

Rhodey speaks up. “Seriously, kid, even if this was all we had, we’d want you to drink it.”

Peter gives in, taking a few more long sips before he drops his head back against Tony’s shoulder, closing his eyes again with a whispered “Thanks.”

“Let’s get some food in you, then you can check out,” Rhodey says.

Peter’s eyes open. “You have food?”

Tony’s heart twists at his tone. How long might it have been since Peter ate?

“We might have pilfered it from a couple SWAT members,” Rhodey says with a shrug of his shoulders.

Peter’s lips tug upwards again.

After Peter’s eaten small bites of whatever rations Rhodey judges would be best for Peter’s stomach, he leans back against Tony’s shoulder again and closes his eyes, breathing deepening within moments.

Tony just watches his kid, content to stay sitting here for the rest of his life if it means he can hold Peter peacefully in his arms.

The boy’s skin is too pale, his cheekbones too pronounced and his limbs even thinner than usual. Tony can feel each rib beneath his arms, see the jut of his collarbone. His curls lie messily tangled a couple inches longer than Peter usually keeps them. That’s not even mentioning the cuts and bruises that litter his frame, looking far less mended than his healing factor would usually allow. He’s clearly gone through horrors in the past month that no teenager -no  _ person _ \- should ever have to.

But he’s here, breathing, and Tony will get him home if it’s the last thing he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments will be liquefied and and used to spike my milk. Cuz I drink a lot of milk.
> 
> Also I've decided to do at least some of the febuwhump prompts so keep an eye out for those if you so desire!
> 
> Thank you thank you for reading and for all of the support!! <33333
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://whump-angst-fluff-repeat.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat. Please stop by! :)


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